


Storms

by Arcane_Iridescence



Series: Say "I Love You" [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, M/M, broken relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 10:29:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5663029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcane_Iridescence/pseuds/Arcane_Iridescence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re angry words spoken, they bite and sting and cut through the air, sharp and unyielding as they yell at each other. There’s no breath wasted in their fights these days. </p>
<p>And these days that’s all they do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Storms

**Author's Note:**

> I cry over everything these days, so saying I cried over this isn’t actually a good measurement to go by.
> 
> Like everything I write, it's unbeta'd.

They’re angry words spoken, they bite and sting and cut through the air, sharp and unyielding as they yell at each other. There’s no breath wasted in their fights these days. 

And these days that’s all they do. 

A door is slammed – _the front one_ , he thinks – but it’s another thing that’s common for them now and Akaashi doesn’t move from his spot on the couch. It’s the one he stole from Bokuto the day after they finally finished moving it. It was in the corner of the room, a good angle to the TV, and gave the only view of the kitchen and hallway. If someone was at the door, he just had to peak through the blinds. He doesn’t this time. He knows he’ll just see that familiar figure haunch his shoulders and pull his collar up over his ears because he forgot his hat again – _Akaashi used to have to toss it down the stairs at him in the mornings_ – and walk away. He’s always a retreating figure now. Akaashi only sees his face when they’re fighting anymore, snarling scathing words and baring fangs they never used on each other until the month before. Was it a month? It might have been longer. 

Even if he wanted to, he can’t remember. 

He can’t remember the last time they curled up together on the couch, legs twisted together and arms wrapped around each other and when he tried to see which limb belonged to who, he couldn’t – and he hadn’t cared. He couldn’t remember the last time he would sit at the table, barely awake and on his fourth cup of coffee while his boyfriend flipped pancakes at the stove, his sweat pants riding low on his hips – a better view than the sunrise through the window. He couldn’t remember the last time he ran his hands through Bokuto’s hair when it was down and still damp from his shower, watched the colors shift as the strands caught the light, slipping from between his fingers – the strands soft as silk despite the product he used on it. 

It was all the small things he missed, but they were dull memories now, overshadowed by harsh words and late nights at the office because _if he stayed longer, he wouldn’t have to spend as much time at home fighting_. The house is stuffy these days, suffocating despite how he cleans it so thoroughly, trying to chase out the heavy weight that had settled against the walls like years of cigarette stains. It hangs from the ceiling, yellowing the corners and pealing away the paint to reveal the plaster and drywall underneath. It’s the kind of dark mood that clings to the floors and ate at everything, making it hard to walk without stumbling, dragging him down and drowning him in the tiled linoleum flooring. 

Akaashi wonders if this is what if feels like to fall out of love. But he doesn’t think he loves Bokuto any less, even if it _is_ hard to remember what it felt like to be in love so much that it ached and left him awake at night, staring at the man laying next to him drooling on the pillow and just enjoying the fact they they were together and alive and _alive together_. 

_This_ hurt though, so maybe it is the same. To fall in love, to fall out of love. Maybe they are the same ache, the same pressure against his chest that makes his eyes soften might well be the same one that makes them harden at the start of every fight. He imagines one might be more hollow, though. Not that he could say which it was. 

Is he falling out of love?

At this point, maybe that’s better. It was getting hard to not just completely shut down during these fights, to not just end up where he is now, on the couch, back turned to the room and his knees against his chest, jaw set and eyes closed. He no longer flinched at the front door slamming, nor did his pull at his hair and bite his lip because he refused to cry, refused to cry – refused and _failed_. How many headaches has he given himself trying to hold back his tears? How many times has his throat itched from sobs that would wrack his body and leave him throwing up in the kitchen sink? So many _how many’s_ and what were they worth? They weren’t worth more broken glass on the floor, shards that he picked up and then went out to replace because they didn’t enough cups in the first place. They weren’t worth the noise complaints or the calls to friends in the middle of the night, nor the many “ _can I borrow you couch for the night_ ” or the money spent at hotel rooms because he didn’t want anybody to know just how _bad_ they were. They weren’t worth not sleeping at all even though he had a presentation in the morning and knew if he would be running on caffeine pills it would be noticeable. 

It wasn’t worth the pain or the bitterness or the sting of the memories because as much as he could scrub at the floors and watch the laundry spin in the machine, _those_ he couldn’t clean away. His memories were something that stuck to him like the honey they used to rub on each other when their fights had been more playful and less stressful, and no matter how much he drank – _face buried in his arms and tears leaving salty trails on his skin as they ran off the tip of his nose_ – he couldn’t forget. They seemed clearer than ever – or at least the feelings behind them did.

And there were a lot of those. Warm feelings, happy, light, breathless and shimmering like the ocean on a sunny, summer day. They were dull now, dark and lonely. 

Maybe _this_ is what it feels like to fall out of love. But he _loves_ Bokuto – why else would it hurt _this much?_ So maybe this is just the start. Maybe _this_ is where those feelings turned to bitterness and hate. He almost hopes it _is_ because he’s just so _tired_. He has been stretched as far as he can be; any more and his brittle body might crumple like dry leaves, leaving just pieces of him and the memory of what used to be. He knows that at the rate they were going, it would only ruin them both and they’d have nothing left but the gaping wound fevered by infection, red and angry and leaking foulness. Akaashi had hoped they would be able to mend this, that it was just a rough patch – but now he isn’t so sure. He hasn’t been sure in a long time. 

He takes a deep, steadying breath – one he desperately needs – and opens his eyes. They’re dry this time, but the stress and exhaustion is etched into the creases of his skin like crudely drawn lines on a canvas that had already been painted over once before. His body ached as he pushes himself off the couch, his muscles feeling bruised and his joints stiff, his bones grinding against each other. Each shuffled step leeches away at his energy and he has to remind himself to breathe – in, out, inflate, deflate, repeat, repeat, repeat. He makes his way to their shared room, though it is no longer shared. It belonged to whichever fell asleep in it first at night. Akaashi pauses at the door, looks around and takes it all in. 

There’s a three-tier shelf over the dresser that’s covered in framed photos of the two of them and their friends – the trip to Peru after they graduated college, the trip to the ocean, the trip to Italy for Akaashi’s business venue, the one from their volleyball days in high school, though Bokuto continued playing – and ticket stubs from concerts they got to see. In between them sit tacky purchases from the gift shops and little nick-knacks from their friends to commemorate their anniversaries. There’s an ink blotch on the wardrobe from an exploding pen and a dent in the headboard from a wrestling session that ended in a concussion and a trip to the hospital. So many memories to mark their time together. And it all led up to _this_ , Akaashi packing his clothes and staring at the posters they both agreed on, sitting on their bed for the last time and taking a deep breath because it _still smelled like Bokuto_. And maybe he is falling out of love, but he doesn’t _want_ to, no matter how much he feels like breaking down or how furiously he scrubs at the tears trying to dry out his skin again. But there is no continuation for their story. It isn’t an end per se, but it’s the point where they diverge and go their separate ways, going on with their lives _apart_. Because what they have isn’t healthy, not anymore. It’s stifling and toxic. Maybe they can repair it, maybe it can be mended, but Akaashi is just too tired of trying and he was even more tired of trying to fix it. 

He drops his bags at the door, turns around and walks back through their apartment, running his fingers along the walls, over the counters, the table, the sheets and the pillows. He lets himself feel it all one last time, breathes it in and absorbs it. He remembers the places they curled up together, the places they kissed, had their hair ruffled, and the places they had sex. He tries to remember what drove them to this point, wonders where all their passion had gone to, wonders why the ashes had grown cold and why they even began fighting so venomously to begin with. 

So many _why’s_ and so many _how’s_ and no answers to lay the questions to bed. Nothing to say why they had gone from being unable to keep their hands off each other to not being able to even _look_ at each other. 

Akaashi wonders if maybe he should write a note. But what point is there in doing that? There’s nothing to explain. One of them would probably have left eventually; it was only a matter of time. He didn’t want to be the one – still stubbornly hoping they could figure out whatever the hell it is that’s tearing them apart – but maybe that’s what it was always going to come down to. He can’t imagine Bokuto being the one to go. 

Then again, he had never imagined he would be the one with his bags at the door either. 

Akaashi takes a deep breath and steps out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him. He goes back to his spot on the couch and tilts his head back, closes his eyes, and waits. 

And waits. 

And waits. 

And waits. 

Bokuto only returns well into the night. Akaashi can hear the staggered steps and the keys dropping more than once before they find their home in the lock. The door creaks open. And then there’s _silence_. He can feel the shock and surprise in the air like a physical touch and knows that Bokuto has seen his bags – he wanted him to, because how else was he going to tell him that he was leaving, that this was over? His name in called out into the silence, the dark rooms giving no answer. Maybe he should have turned on a light. 

His name is called again, a little more desperate, a little more fearful, and it makes his chest squeeze and ache. He had little doubt that Bokuto still loved him, but love didn’t seem to be enough anymore. Not for them at least. 

He doesn’t answer, just waits some more. Bokuto stumbles down the entryway, shoes still on, turning on lights as he goes, looking, calling, asking for him. Finally, Akaashi replies.

“I’m here,” he says, quiet, but loud enough to catch his attention. The back of his eyelids turn red as the light is turned on. He raises his head before opening his eyes, watching his boyfriend breathe hard, a helpless look on his face that leaves Akaashi aching more than ever. 

“Your bags… Why are they… Are you…?” There’s a slur to his words, but they don’t mask the pain in his voice, nor the crack and shiver as his tongue tries to roll over each syllable. 

“I’m leaving,” he affirms, trying to keep his resolve from breaking. It feels like he built it on shifting sand and shaking ground, the edge of a cliff looking out over a violent ocean. Why hadn’t he noticed before? Probably because Bokuto hadn’t been standing right in front of him. He hadn’t been in front of him with that distressed understanding in his eyes and his teeth sinking into his bottom lip, his hands shaking at his sides, curling and uncurling into fists. 

He tries not to think about it and looks Bokuto in the eyes. “I’m leaving,” he repeats, slowly so his voice won’t waver, so he doesn’t give away just how torn up this is making him feel. In moments like this, it’s easy to forget that they haven’t touched each other in a month, that they haven’t spoken softly in sleepy voices or told each other that how much they loved each other. It was easy to forget that there’s been nothing but biting words and sharp looks, voices breathless from shouting instead of making out with each other. And he wants to, make out with him that is. He wants to run his fingers through Bokuto’s two-toned hair and feel his skin shiver beneath his palms and watch his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed, head back and neck exposed. He wanted to press his mouth against that neck, taste the salt of his skin and feel the heat against his tongue – but he couldn’t do that, as much as he wanted to.

He didn’t want to be _here_ , bags at the door, nails digging into his palms and leaving painful, red crescents because he didn’t want his hands to shake; he didn’t want to be conscious of how he was breathing as he broke up with the only man he ever loved. 

“It was always going to come to this,” he says, tries not to bite his tongue at the sight of Bokuto flinching. “After how we’ve been, it was inevitable. People aren’t supposed to be like this.” There’s a long pause to steady himself. “ _We’re_ not supposed to be like this.”

Bokuto doesn’t argue that. As childish as he can be, he _knows_ that Akaashi is right.

He almost wishes there _is_ another argument. It might make it easier to walk out the door. But any argument they have in this moment might be enough to make him stay – not that it would take much convincing. 

Akaashi pushes himself to his feet and walks across the living room to stand in front of the other. Each step seems to stretch miles, his feet heavy and dragging. His chest clenches and squeezes and everything hurt as he raises his hand to Bokuto’s cheek. He tries to ignore the way his throat aches and chokes up, or the way his eyes prickle and burn. There’s another headache forming at the tension and the effort he’s making to keep from crying. He pushes up on his toes and presses a kiss to the corner of Bokuto’s mouth, lingering longer than he should; long enough that he can feel regret burning in the pit of his stomach. Bokuto turns his head and the kiss is changed to something else, something more, something that’s making it ever harder to pull away. 

But even knowing he should step back, his resolve had already begun to crumble and he melts into the kiss, finding himself drawing closer instead of away. Tongues that had done nothing but lash coldly did other things now, while hands burned agonizing trails across skin, pulling at clothes and hair and anything else they got ahold of while nails carve red lines across skin like pens on an white paper. He can taste the alcohol in his mouth, smell it on his breath, absently wonders if it’s what he feels in the trembling fingers on his hips. Something tells him it’s _not_. 

There’s a trail of clothes and shoes that lead to the bedroom and across the floor. The socks only just make it to the bed, though one manages to stay on his foot. It’s easy to ignore as they grind against each other, press hot mouths and sharp teeth against fevered skin. It’s not gentle, and it’s not painfully rough either, but he can feel it in the way their hands move as they channel all the anger and the pain and everything they had been feeling this past month into this one moment, this one break in their tumultuous, raging skies. His back cracks as he arches up, fingers burn as they grip the sheets, and his toes cramp as he curls them against Bokuto’s thighs. 

His orgasm rips through his center, leaving him gasping at the gaping hole it leaves, clawing at his organs and rearranging them. His mind is placed in a blender and he’s left dizzy and near-nauseous, and his fingers have locked into a vice grip on the bedding. His skin stings and he can taste the residue of blood in his mouth, but he just lays there panting, disconnected from his body and left afloat in a boat drifting down a nameless river with no end in sight. But eventually there _will_ be one. 

Bokuto curls over him, shoulders tense and shaking as he breathes hot, damp air against Akaashi’s ear, body all lean muscles and defined lines that make him bite his lip at the feel of it against his own. 

They lay there after the sound of labored breaths no longer echo against walls and the sweat has begun to cool and Akaashi is done shifting his hips at the feeling he’ll never get use to. The silence stretches between them, tense but exhausted. He’s sure it’s late enough to be called early at that point and he really just wants to sleep, but he can’t. Not yet.

There’s no instant fix to a relationship, and sex was by no means a cure-all for whatever ailments they had festering between them, and even if he missed sex with Bokuto – he _regretted_ it. He regretted it down to his bones and he hated himself for giving in. Maybe it was a potential turning point for them to get better, but he was tired of hoping and he didn’t want to find out if he was going to be wrong again. 

“This isn’t healthy,” he says out loud, the words sticking to his tightening throat. He hopes he doesn’t start crying again. “We can’t go on like this.”

Bokuto inhales, but there’s only a small sound before he cuts himself off. Akaashi can hear the click of his teeth as he clenches his jaw, and knows without looking at him that he’s wearing a frustrated expression. But he doesn’t argue, _won’t_ argue, because it’s _true_. They had reached the point of being toxic for each other.

Bokuto deserved better. 

Akaashi deserved better. 

And if that didn’t involve the two to of them _together_ , then there was nothing they can do to change that fact. 

Akaashi rolled onto his side, away from Bokuto, and closed his eyes. The other pulls the blankets up around him, curls his arm around Akaashi’s waist after a moment of hesitation and settles flush against him. He lets him, just drowns himself in that familiar warmth and drifts off into sleep, or at least something that resembles it.. 

He’s never had an easy time to wake up in the morning, even less so when he was up late, but that morning he’s awake the moment his eyes slide open. He doesn’t get up right away, just breathes in the morning and the scent of Bokuto’s skin. At some point he had rolled into his usual position of using the other as a pillow, while Bokuto was sprawled across most of the bed. He enjoys the moment, etches it into his memory despite knowing how much it would hurt later, and takes it all in for the last time; the way the sun painted gold lines through the blinds across the cream sheets and Bokuto’s tanned skin. He notes the smell of pine shampoo and an aftershave with some kind of spice, the lingering smell of alcohol and sweat and heat. Every little detail is committed to memory. The warmth of his body and the redness beneath Bokuto’s eyes and the furrow between his eyebrows, the downward pull of his lips. It makes his heart ache painfully, but when the memory is cemented in his mind, he extracts himself from the twisted sheets and Bokuto’s arms, and climbs out of bed. The cold floor makes him jump – like they always have – but he strides quietly across them without hesitation, pulling on his other sock, his briefs, his jeans, shirt, sweater. At some point he grabs something that isn’t his and it makes him stop for a while, like that little thing has short-circuited his mind.

When he stops in front of the mirror in the entryway, he grimaces. His hair is a mess, his face is a mess, his neck is the worst mess off all – everything about him is a mess. His eyes look hollow and his lips are still swollen, and his throat is littered with angry marks that are already purpled into bruises. Many of them are still in the near-perfect shape of teeth and one looks like it will scab over before it heals. 

Akaashi wrapped an extra scarf around him before pulling on his jacket, hiding his wild hair under a knitted cap. Pulling on his shoes, he takes one final breath and fits the straps of his bags over his shoulders. There’s a whisper of fabric behind him, and despite how hard he tries to resist, he turns around. Bokuto stands there, hair down and their blanket wrapped around him. He looks as much of a mess as Akaashi is, and no amount of heartache could stifle the flicker of pride he feels about that. 

Akaashi gives him a smile – at least he tries to. It feels more like another grimace, as if he is being repeatedly kicked in the gut. 

It _feels_ like he is. 

“Goodbye, Bokuto,” he says, giving a small bow. He wishes he didn’t look back up at him, but he can’t help it. 

Bokuto looks distraught, like the news channel just announced that the world was ending immediately and there was nothing to be done about it. Distress, hopelessness, heartbreak – they all play across his face and leave an agonized look in his dulled eyes. 

“Akaashi…” Is all he says, but that one word is enough to make him drop his head and try not to just _break_ right there. 

“Goodbye,” he says again, because it’s all he _can_ say, taking a step back. He gropes blindly for the door handle for a few painful moments before he finds it and twists. The door is heavy, but it opens easily on oiled hinges, more muted than usually, like it’s mourning this moment as much as they are. 

Akaashi steps across the threshold, still keeping his head down, and let’s the door close between them one last time. He almost dares to look up, but he knows that if he sees that expression again, his fragile resolve will completely shatter like all those glass cups he had replaced after their fights. The lock clicks into place and it makes him stumble against the door, the sound small but _final_ , leaving him shaking as he finally loses the battle and breaks down. He slides down a bit, but is only _just_ able to stay on his feet through sheer will power. There’s a muffled sound on the other side of the panel, and it sounds like a sob. 

“I love you,” he says, gasping it out despite the tightness in his lungs. “I love you, I love you.”

There’s a reply, muffled and barely audible, but it still makes him sob more. He imagines they must make quite a scene, speaking breathless _I love you’s_ through a door that can easily be opened. 

But he straightens himself up after a while and takes a step back, shaking from more than the cold, and forces himself away from the place that had been his home for so long. 

“ _I’m sorry, Akaashi._ ”

He keeps walking. 

“ _I’m sorry…_ ”

And it’s the last thing he hears. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comment please?


End file.
